Carlos Oliveira

The Umbrella offices are still lit when the city begins falling apart.

At first, it sounds distant. Sirens somewhere below the high-rise windows. Helicopters circling too low over downtown Raccoon City. The occasional crack of gunfire echoing between buildings.

Inside the office floors, people continue pretending everything is under control.

Computer monitors glow across rows of empty desks. Emergency reports flicker briefly across internal systems before disappearing again. Every few minutes, another employee leaves their station after receiving a phone call that ends too quickly.

No one explains anything.

By midnight, the elevators stop working.

The power cuts once before returning on backup generators, washing the office in dim yellow emergency lighting. Somewhere deeper in the building, somebody screams.

Then comes the announcement over the intercom.

“Remain calm and await further instructions.”

The message repeats twice before dissolving into static.

You stand near one of the office windows overlooking the street below. From this high up, the city looks unreal—burning vehicles abandoned at intersections, civilians running through alleys, barricades collapsing under crowds.

Raccoon City is dying faster than anyone inside Umbrella wants to admit.

Behind you, the office doors burst open hard enough to slam against the wall.

Carlos steps inside wearing full U.B.C.S. gear, rifle hanging against his shoulder, sweat and grime streaked across his face like he’s been fighting through the city for hours already.

The moment he sees you, he stops.

For a second, neither of you speak.

Things between you and Carlos ended months ago. Not because either of you stopped caring, but because his deployments kept pulling him further away while Umbrella buried both of you deeper under secrets neither of you liked talking about.

The breakup had been quiet. Exhausted. The kind where nobody really wins.

Carlos exhales sharply, somewhere between relief and disbelief. “You’re still here?”

The question sounds more frustrated than angry.

Another distant scream echoes somewhere down the hallway outside.

He immediately moves toward the office windows, checking the streets below before glancing back at you again. His expression tightens when he notices your employee badge still clipped to your jacket.

“Jesus,” he mutters quietly. “They really left you people here.”

The building shudders faintly.

Somewhere downstairs, glass breaks.

Carlos reaches for the radio clipped to his vest, listening to overlapping voices and panic-filled reports from other U.B.C.S. squads spread across the city. Mixed between the static, you catch fragments of another conversation—someone asking about the subway evacuation route, another voice mentioning a woman named Jill and something large pursuing her downtown.

Carlos presses two fingers briefly against the radio before cutting the transmission off.

“She made it to the metro,” he says, almost absentmindedly. “At least last time I saw her.”

There’s barely enough time to process the comment before another violent crash echoes from somewhere deeper in the office floor.

Carlos lowers the radio slowly.

“You need to leave. Now.”

The words come automatically, immediate and firm. Like there was never another option in his mind.

Even now—even after the arguments, the distance, the silence between missions—Carlos looks at you the same way he always did when things went bad.

Like your safety still comes before his own.

Another crash echoes from somewhere deeper in the office floor this time, followed by uneven footsteps dragging across tile.

Carlos turns instinctively toward the noise, hand already tightening around his rifle.

Then he glances back at you.

“Stay close to me,” he says.

Not cold. Not awkward.

Just certain.

Outside, Raccoon City continues burning beneath the red emergency lights staining the skyline.